


An Hour of Wolves

by stewardssons



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6672859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stewardssons/pseuds/stewardssons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Haradrim begin to gather their armies and the Easterlings grow bolder day by day, rumors swirl that perhaps a shadow has returned to Mordor and its fires have been kindled once more. In the East, the Rangers of Ithilien have begun to suspect a great foe has returned to Middle-earth and in turn, reach out to their kindred in Arnor for aid. When the Dunedain of the North send one of their own, she must work to uncover the identity of one of Gondor, and Middle-earth's, most feared enemies alongside such unexpected allies as the sons of the Steward. The War of the Ring is about to begin and the fate of both Men and Middle-earth hangs in the balance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Don’t ask me to lie to you.” The words came swift and firm. 

He sighed and ran a hand slowly through his dark hair. He absently flicked his wrist to gaze at his fingers, as if to see if any grey had managed to appear, intermingled with black. He felt weary, felt tired. Though exhaustion was nearly all he had ever known, was all he and his kin had known for near an age, for the first time he could remember it felt near overwhelming. 

“Have I aged you so greatly?” The woman’s voice softened now and he looked upwards. For a moment he thought he saw her as he once had, as a small girl with eyes far too curious for her own good, but the clouds covering the moon shifted and the illusion rippled away with them. Despite the iron set of her jaw and the anger curled in her tight lips, there was an undeniable affection in her gaze. “If you must remember me, remember me not as that, Halbarad.”

“You will return,” He finally replied, a faint smile curling onto his noble, worn features, “And when you do, I will tell tales of all the times you managed to get me into trouble when we were children, of how you stole Gaelenir’s horse and blamed it on poor Anbin.”

“Anbin was far too quick to kiss the boot of any elder he came upon, he deserved it.”

“He had to muck the stables for a fortnight, Sidri.”

“He should be glad they took pity on him and did not make it an entire season.”

“He still detests you, you know.”

Their eyes met and before he knew what was happening, she strode forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him. His will softened then and he returned the embrace, resting his head gently atop her own. “I would not ask this of you were there any other choice, Sidri, you must know this.”

She was quiet for a moment, still. “I know.” There was some concession in her voice but Halbarad heard a tired grief mingled with it. “But do not ask me to lie to you, Halbarad, do not ask me if I am happy in this. We both know well I am not.”

“Our chieftain mentioned you by name, perhaps you might find some comfort, perhaps even in pride in that.”

“Our chieftain?” The woman took a graceful step back, a black brow arching, “Where is he now, then? When we are all but overrun, when we can barely feed ourselves, where is he? Off with the wizard again, I suppose! If he cannot dwell in the North, then why would he not allow me do it in his stead? I belong here, Halbarad, with you! With the rest of our kin! Not-, not off in…” Her voice trailed off and he pitied her briefly as her head lowered, her teeth digging into her lower lip. Her reaction was not unwarranted, given that his order had come as an outright surprise to both. Sidri shifted her weight and swallowed hard, sighing quietly. “Forgive my harsh words and my anger, I mean them not. I would trust Aragorn in all that he asks of us, I would not doubt him in this.”

“I know, sister.” 

She lowered herself into a chair, running her hands through her dark hair. A chill wind whispered through the threadbare tent then, sending a shiver up his spine, and he watched her wrap her cloak tightly over her thin shoulders. “I will miss you greatly, Halbarad.”

“And I you.” 

The woman turned her attentions to the table aside her then, grey eyes roaming over a map illuminated by the few candles they could spare. He stood beside her, a calloused hand carefully spreading out the corners of the parchment. “It is not all that far away,” He offered with a faint attempt at humor. 

It was met with a small snort. 

“When you return, you’ll regale us all with tales of far off lands, of glittering cities, Sidri, and we’ll have naught to share with you but tales of how the Brandybuck cattle got loose in Buckland yet again.”

He was pleased to see that earned him a smile, even if it was clouded with sorrow. 

 

\---------------

With any luck, he’d be comfortably in Henneth Annun before his father even noticed he had gone. He knew that a letter describing his return to Ithilien had been given to one of his father’s attendants, though doubted Denethor would even care to open it until the following morning. Besides, Faramir told himself with a bleak smile, he had always enjoyed traveling by night. The world was quieter when the sun fell behind distant peaks and the stars glittered against a canopy of darkness.  
As a boy he had treasured the summers spent in Dol Amroth, sneaking out with his cousins after they had pretended to be asleep and slipping into the cool waters of the Bay. He and Boromir had visited there all the more after his mother’s passing, given what comfort and care Denethor decidedly lacked by Imrahil and his wife. Lothiriel had ever teased him and his brother and her laughter seemed to cast away whatever grief Faramir had come bearing. Those had been good days, opportunities to escape, even if for a bit. 

Shaking himself out of his revelry, Faramir returned to searching through his quarters for every map he could manage to cram into his riding bag, disappointed to see their carefully wrought designs folded and injured beneath his watch. They had few, the Rangers, and what few they possessed were grievously old in comparison to the hundreds strewn throughout the Citadel, not to mention his own dwellings. For that, he had made careful mental note to return with all that he could, hoping to surprise his kinsmen. 

“Are you making off with half the damned library, brother?”

A familiar voice laughed from his doorway and Faramir looked up with a broad smile, stress immediately melting from his shoulders. “One of us has to ensure the intelligence of our line is properly carried on. You think I’ve read all I have out of joy, then? No, I fear it is out of naught but duty.”

That warranted another laugh and he cringed as Boromir rested a sweaty arm upon his shoulder. “Where are you headed off to? I saw them prepare your horse in the stables.” 

“You smell horrible, Boromir.”

“That, dear Faramir, is the scent of victory.” Boromir grinned and swept a handful of linens from the dresser, wiping his brow off. “Or, at least, furthered victories, I suppose.”

“Everyone knows you’re already Gondor’s finest warrior,” Faramir snorted and stuffed another pair of trousers into his bag, “No need to go and make yourself its most pompous, as well.”

He furrowed his brow then, searching for any truth to be taken from the statement, and finding nothing but jest he shrugged. Boromir sat on his bed, flicking sweaty strands of his auburn hair from eyes, “You should come train tomorrow, with Beregond and I. His son watches too now. Berg-, Berg something. He’s his father’s son, both in countenance and in bearing. I think you’d like him a great deal.”

Faramir set his jaw, swiping a tongue over his lower lip before returning to packing. “Yes, but perhaps another day, Boromir.”

Boromir arched a brow and stood, moving to his brother’s side. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?”

Faramir sighed softly. “I am.”

Boromir remained quiet for a long moment only to move to the window. Faramir knew the view well. It was one of the finest anywhere in the city and even as a child he had appreciated its splendid beauty. It had seemed to him cold sometimes, the pale marble that glittered beneath both moon and sun, but as he had grown older he had thought it a proud beauty, something beyond the brief whims and fancies of men. Something truly wrought from their deepest ambitions, something that might stand even against the craft of the firstborn. 

“Were you going to leave without telling me?”

A simple question, but one that pained him. Faramir glanced upwards, unable to read the expression on his brother’s features. “....I had not cared to inconvenience you nor-, nor Father.”

“Inconvenience? Faramir, you would not inconvenience me.” There was a brief, aching pause as they both realized he made no mention of their father, but Boromir continued, “How long are you to be gone then? And to where? I would not wish to see you off without a proper farewell.”

“Henneth Annun, I had hoped to leave in the next few hours and as to when I return, I should think no longer than a fortnight.”

Boromir scrunched his nose. “Off to Ithilien again? What need have they now? And Faramir, regardless of Father you need not sneak off like some thief in the night.”

“They have many needs,” Faramir correctly gently, carefully tying his bag shut, “More than you know and more than any here realize.”

“I’ll not deny that,” He finally replied and Faramir was pleased before he continued, “They lack any sense of humor and could use something to replace those perpetual scowls. I shall be relieved to know you’ll oversee such, brother.”

Faramir rolled his eyes.   
“Forgive the jest,” Boromir waved a hand and paused to retie the laces binding Faramir’s bag, “But truly, what reason have you to return? Something aside from your typical duties?” 

“Yes, Madril has requested I return.” Faramir nodded in appreciation as his brother stepped back, noting the bag was far more secure now, “I know not the details, but he had sent word to those in the North. The Haradrim have been bolder of late, that much has worried him and rightly so, but why he sought the counsel of his kin in the West I cannot say.”

“The Haradrim have always been a nuisance. If they are bold for a fortnight, whatever organization they may bear will fade a fortnight thereafter.” Boromir shrugged, visibly unconcerned. “You know well they fight as but children. No doubt your men in Ithilien angered one of the chieftains, but within a week that chieftain will have a feud with another and any conquests of Gondor’s lands will be long forgotten.”

“I know, Boromir,” Faramir added quietly, “But he thinks this is different.”

“Then you will do what you must,” Boromir clapped him gently on the back after a thoughtful pause, “And return to us safely, and preferably within a fortnight, and upon your return you’ll come spar with me. How sounds that?” His expression softened. “I’ll see to it Father hears of your departure...tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Boromir,” He smiled then and looked upwards to meet his brother’s gaze. He had always been taller, Boromir, fairer and braver and near everything he could think of. “I will write if I can, you’ve my word.”


	2. II

“I came as swiftly as I could,” Faramir replied, sweeping his cloak from his shoulders. He nimbly moved past of the other rangers, comforted to see familiar faces surrounding him. It was a worry each time he returned. He would also notice one less man, one less name. The lives of the Dunedain were too often short despite the longevity granted them by their blood, ended early by sword or arrow or any number of troubles they faced upon a daily basis. It served as a reminder to him that his youth, touched with grief, was not all that unbearable in the face of what his kindred here faced and fought. They knew loss more poignantly than near any, were forced to become as familiar with it as life. “Forgive me, I fear your letter arrived later to me than either of us might have wished.”

Mardil waved a hand, guiding his captain into a small room littered with maps and charts. Faramir followed, nodding to a familiar ranger as he passed. “Worry not,” Mardil corrected gently, a small smile following. It occurred distantly to Faramir that he could count each of Mardil’s smiles on his hand and still have fingers left over, “We are just grateful for your return. We have not heard word from those in Arnor, but we still have hope they may aid us. Long has it been since last we spoke to our brethren, I do not know what numbers they boast nor what conditions they have faced.”

Faramir nodded in understanding. “What little I know of the Rangers of the North dwells in history books and legend, in myth and tale. I am ashamed I know not more, if anything. Do oft you communicate with them? Speak to them, aid each other?”

Madril gave a swift shake of his head, “No. They must go about their own business, their own duties. I cannot speak as to what assails them in the North, what has through the ages, but the Men of the West have always dwelt there and always shall, I suppose.” A shrug followed, albeit a thoughtful one. “I cannot think of when last we thought to try and seek their council, but I hope our common blood might lend us their aid, even if they would wish otherwise. They are said to value their privacy.”

“As are you,” Faramir smiled, folding his arms over his chest, “For that I should think us all to have common purpose.” Despite the curiosity and worry that clouded his journey to Ithilien, as a warm breeze swept his hair Faramir found himself relaxed, content. He had always cared for Minas Tirith, would always call the gleaming towers his home, but in Ithilien he found himself truly comfortable. It was as if the burdens that haunted his steps within the gates of the White City had faded, though to be replaced with other worries, and a quiet part of him whispered that it was the absence of his father. He shrugged off that thought, returning all of his attention to Mardil. 

“I will hope on that, my lord,” Mardil said sternly, leaning to unroll a map of Ithilien and the western provinces across the table. Faramir’s gaze fell upon it, tracing the contours of inscribed mountains and vales, “Six months ago, we caught two small bands of Southrons trying to ford the Poros. We thought nothing of it then, though in truth it had been the largest group of them we had seen in years.” His scarred hand swept over the thin line of the river, resting atop a carefully inscribed name, “And they grew closer to Haudh in Gwanur than any foe we could recall.”  
“How close?” Faramir arched a brow. 

“Within two days travel.”

He was startled by that. Even two days away was closer than he would have thought any foe of Gondor or the Rohirrim might tread. It was a burial mound, a place thought near sacred by the Eorlingas in their traditions and revered by those in both Ithilien and Gondor for its history. The twin sons of Folcwine had been laid to rest there, fallen in service to the Oath of Cirion by the hands of Haradrim. It had long been thought a cursed place by the Southrons, as well as all enemies of Gondor. Faramir was grateful he remembered such history lessons now and made note to thank his former tutor when next his returned to Minas Tirith, but also could not remember when he had heard of any foe of Men seeking to even approach the Crossroads. “Have any tried to come near since, Madril?”

“No. Our scouts report they have not even attempted to cross the Poros once more and for that we are grateful. We do not have the numbers to spread that thin, much less to assemble a force so far from Osgiliath.”

“Good,” He nodded firmly, swiping his tongue over the corner of his lip in thought. 

“It would seem,” Madril corrected gently, his hand moving to the East, “But our scouts report that since then, and still now, the Southrons gather. Not one band, no, but enough to be considered a company. Furthermore, we suspect more to be traveling, but the size of this host we cannot say, nor guess at. All we know is more may still come.”

Faramir thought of Boromir’s words then, leaning over the map thoughtfully. “They oft keep to their tribes, yes, but have you considered that perhaps some small warlord has garnered their allegiance through conquest? They have always warred amongst each other, perhaps they gather not to strike at Gondor, but at each other until the command of one of their own? Keep cautious, yes, but within a fortnight we may likely see this group crumble under the weight of their own jealousy and lust for power.”

Madril smiled thinly, “We had hoped as much, assumed as much. However, two months ago, one of our scouts retrieved this from a Southron scout.” He moved to a small chest in the corner of the room, kneeling and retrieving a small strip of cloth.

Faramir arched a brow as Madril held it out. It seemed a simple thing, dyed burgundy in tradition of the bold, proud colors their folk favored. Already faded somewhat by the sun, Faramir squinted as he took note of the dark runes painted onto the fabric. “I fear I cannot read this, Madril. What says it?”

“What do you think it to be?”

Faramir lifted it up closer to his face, searching any familiar arch or curve hidden. Upon finding none, and perhaps worried that he had missed something obvious to Madril, he shook his head. “I would assume it to be one of the tongues of the Haradrim. Their language is harsh. I have never seen their own writing; in truth I thought they likely had none.”

“They have their own writing, though it is rare and oft cruel.”

“Oh, then what says it? Forgive me that I cannot read it. No doubt one of you or your kin may know what it states.”

“We had thought so, as well. My kin and I passed it round’, waiting for one of us to be able to recognize it. None were able, however. For that, we sought the aid of those in the North.”

Faramir tilted his head in thought, looking upwards from the cloth. “For this you reached out to the Rangers of the North? I mean no insult, but what aid might they offer with such as this? I doubt they often see the writings, or even hear the speech, of those in Harad.”

Madril nodded slowly and Faramir felt a shiver trickle down his spine as he spied fear in his lieutenant's eyes. “Were this writing of Harad? No, they would not be able to help us, but we do not think this born of Harad, Faramir.”

“Where then?” Faramir asked swiftly, confused. 

Madril did not immediately reply, though Faramir watched as the worry in his grey eyes grew. 

\-------------------------------

Sidri felt her stomach rumble and sighed under her breath, wrapping her cloak all the tighter around her shoulders. Despite the wears of the journey, it had remained near spotless and as warm as the day she had first been given it. Despite her hunger and exhaustion, she smiled in gratitude for it, as well as for the kindness of those in Imladris. The Dunedain has always been a friend of those who dwelt in the Last Homely House, and she knew well their survival had long been aided, if not been wholly dependent, upon the generosity of Elrond and his kin. 

She nudged her horse further down the worn path, contented by the song of a distant bird. When she had been a girl, her father had taken her to visit Imladris with a few others of those in Sarn Ford. She had been in outright awe of the Valley, eyes wide at every statue and glittering balcony, and the elves had been amused by it. They had been kind, however, and had taken her hand as her father and his men spoke of what tidings she was far too young to understand. She had been guided through countless gardens and over fair bridges, beneath which bright streams danced and lapped. It had been a wonder to her then and remained so even now. 

Upon hearing of her journey, they had waved away the letter she carried from Halbarad as evidence of her mission and trusted her fully. A life of wariness and suspicion from the Bree-folk made that an altogether welcome change and when she had left, her packs had been filled with food and the clothes upon her back made by the hands of the firstborn. It had made her journey bearable, though far more made it uncomfortable, and before she could stop herself Sidri began to long for the comforts not only of Imladris, but of Sarn Ford. 

She sighed, forcing herself to focus on the road before her, and pinched her thigh to keep herself awake. Her horse threw back its hair, as if seeking to aid her in this, and a tired smile crossed her features. In return, she patted his neck gently and made mental note to offer him a great many carrots whenever they reached their destination. 

The road itself, though it had long ago fallen once more into the clutches of the thick forest surrounding her, none the less remained passable. The woods themselves reminded her of those dotting the rolling hills of the North Downs and for that, did not intimidate her. The bird song, louder now, lightened her spirits and she absently worked to determine what bird it was. Her mother had always been especially gifted at that. 

“Might as well see where we are, I suppose,” She nodded down to her horse, reaching into her saddlebag and withdrawing a tattered map. Halbarad had reassured her it was the most recent map of Ithilien to be found in all of the Bree-lands, purchased a fortnight prior from a dwarven merchant, but given its clear wear she would have settled for it to have been drawn up in the last century. She leaned back in the saddle and unfolded it over her lap, squinting down at the faded ink. 

If the map proved true, then she had crossed into the borders of Ithilien earlier in the morning. It was late afternoon now and Sidri calculated she had passed more than three leagues into Ithilien, two at most. A few more hours and she would settle for the night and hope to reach a settlement of Rangers in the morning. “Henneth Annun,” She stated slowly, her tongue working the unfamiliar word. A bird seemed to sing in reply and she glanced up with a faint, tired smile and carefully placed the map once more within her pack. 

Nudging her horse forward, another burst of bird song rang out to her left and she blinked. It had sounded closer now, louder but no less fair. Her brow furrowed as yet another called, then another and she drew her sword just before she caught a rush of dark green out of the corner of her eye. Sidri was on her foot in but a moment, decades of training and honed reflex surging in her veins. Her horse whinnied loudly now, sensing something in the forest surrounding them. Her gaze swiftly scanned the trees and bushes before her, flicking from shape to shape in order to find what had followed them. 

Her exhaustion dulled her senses however and she bit her lip fiercely enough to draw a bit of blood, the pain forcing her to focus. “Show yourself!” She snarled, reaching with one hand to draw her cowl up to cover her features. She didn’t suppose it would make any difference, hiding her face now, but the gesture felt familiar, comforting. “I know you are there, show yourself if you mean no harm!”

She flinched wildly as an arrow cracked into the ground before her, stepping back. Well, Sidri supposed, that all but assured her that harm was intended and for that, she grasped her sword all the tighter. Her cheeks flushed with the embarrassment of being caught so wholly unaware. If she was given another chance, she’d not make the same mistake within Ithilien. 

“What business have you here?” A gruff voice suddenly called out and she furrowed her brow, reaching up to gently pat her horse’s neck, but kept a firm grip on the handle of her blade. 

“My business is my own,” She snapped back irritably, “And I fear I do not oft call it into the woods unto those I cannot see.”The leaves rustled to her left and she turned on her heels, raising her blade. “Show yourself!”

Much to her surprise, a figure strode forward then, appearing from the thick forest. He was tall, clad in green and brown, and though his hood was drawn she recognized the glimmer of grey eyes that matched her own. Sidri realized then, that a ranger stood before her, and just as the corners of her mouth curled into a smile and she prepared to address him as a brother, a resounding crack rattled through her skull. It was followed by a torrent of pain and then black and then nothing more.


	3. Chapter 3

She can still feel the chill of steel against her palm. Sidri reflexively opened and closed her hand, slightly wiggling her fingers by her side as if to ward the sensation away. It’s not the first time she’d held a blade, that had happened years ago, but it’s the first she’s ever held a blade she can truly call her own. The weight felt alien, but exciting in its own strange, cold way. Halbarad had looked as solemn as he always had from the corner of her eye, grey gaze staring down in determination. 

There were no more than six of them, for few were children of the Dunedain, and Sidri had only recognized one other than Halbarad. One of the boys had said he had come all the way from Annuminas to swear his oath, a man whom she supposed was his father standing proudly behind him. Sidri wondered briefly if his mother was dead too and felt her eyes sting before she could help it. Biting the inside of her lip so fiercely it nearly bled to stave off any further memories, she committed herself to focusing on the ranger before her. 

No one had been surprised when Gaelenir had been asked to recite the vows, to welcome them into the brotherhood of their fathers and their forebearers. After all, Gaelenir was the among the most respected of all the Dunedain spread throughout the North and even in his age, was renowned for his knowledge and pride. If there was to be any leader in the absence of a chieftain, it would be him. Though her heart ached for the presence of her own parents, Sidri was glad to have him near her for the ceremony. He had pinned the new, dark cloak to her shoulders as they had arrived at the ruins, kneeling down to look her in the eyes. The past year had not been easy, but he had been always gentle and kind unto her, allowing her moments of anger and grief and accepting her waves of sorrow. 

The library at Esteldin, foreign as it had once seemed, was very nearly a home to her now. Whereas the towering, dusty shelves had initially been cold and uninviting, seeming more like a tomb than anything else, she had slowly grown to feel at ease amongst them. That was Gaelenir’s doing, his efforts at making her comfortable in her own time successful. 

“Your parents would be proud of you,” He had whispered with a smile, sweeping her thick black hair over her shoulder as the others gathered, “I know they had longed for this day.”

She had smiled back then, a rare sight, and despite her aching heart had felt her spirits soar as she repeated the ancient vows that her parents had sworn, and their parents before them, and felt decidedly older as the sword was given to her. Yes, after today Sidri would allow herself to be a child no longer. She told herself she might look one still, but a girl in appearance and shape, yet she was a ranger now. She had sworn her oath to uphold and protect the Old Kingdom, the lands of her forefathers and the inheritance of her blood. 

She was of the Dunedain and would now bear all that came with the blood of Numenor. 

Sidri stirred then, a dull wave of pain cresting over her as the memories faded and she began to slip into consciousness once more. 

\----------------------

Boromir sighed as he absently brushed off his hauberk, straightening his posture before giving a faint, awkward nod to the guardsman aside him. The guard, rightly, did not so much as flinch, but he had always felt some desire to at least acknowledge the silent wardens that guarded the upper levels of the Citadel. As a child he had been confused as to why none ever so much as regarded him, save to step aside whenever he appeared on the doorsteps of the vast hall to speak with his father. Denethor had assured him that was simply their duty, to stand and keep watch in silence, and even in his youth he was impressed by the thought. 

But he was a child no longer and his duties were his own, and great, for that matter. He sighed beneath his breath, mentally steeling himself as the great marble doors swung open. The throne room remained as pure as ever, glittering beneath the afternoon light as it streamed in through high windows. His gaze flickered briefly to the statues lining the walls as he proceeded, feeling a surge of boldness in their presence. 

“Forgive my delay, Father,” He bowed his head in respect as he approached the steward, bending lightly at the waist, “I was training with some of the men. Your message took overlong to reach me.” Boromir hoped the lie wasn’t altogether obvious. While it was true the message did take most of the day to reach him, it had been because he had rather purposely decided to spend the afternoon in one of the city’s less populated barracks. He had feigned surprise when the Steward’s breathless servant had arrived, but the realization that he would undoubtedly be called to answer for Faramir’s absence had all but robbed him of sleep the night prior. 

However, and much to his surprise, Denethor did not appear even bothered by his delay, instead immediately rising to his feet. His noble face, for it remained noble even in age, regardless of what else might be said of his father, broke into a smile. “Why always is it that you must tarry when I have need of you, Boromir? Such seems a common occurrence.”

Despite himself, Boromir laughed quietly and shrugged. “The city is large, Father, filled with too many places a lazy son might hide, I fear. It seems your men have finally grown to understand where all I hide.”

Something in his father’s eyes changed then, the brief glimmer of humor fading. “Yes, but at least you might be found, Boromir. That is more than can be said of others.”

Boromir swallowed then, shifting his weight to his other foot. “Faramir is beholden to his duties, Father, and would follow them even before his own comfort. For that, he left as soon as he heard word from Ithilien. A lesser man might have cared to have yet another night of rest in his home, but Faramir cast thoughts of himself aside. There are few who might do the same without complaint.”

His spirits sank all the further as his father appeared entirely unswayed and wholly unconvinced by the argument, instead opting to huff a breath of annoyance. “Always does he seem to be in Ithilien, alongside men who have dreamt far too long of former glories.”  
“They look to him as a leader, Father,” Boromir offered gently, moving closer to the Steward, “An honor they grant rarely unto those who have not been raised alongside them, dwelt there as one of their own. You should be proud of him, that the Dunedain see him as both trusted ally and worthy captain.”

Denethor’s lips pursed into a thin line. “What business has he now amongst them? Dedicated to his duties he might have been, though he lacked the foresight to consider revealing his purpose in returning to Ithilien.”

“He wanted to leave as swiftly as possible,” Boromir ventured carefully, knowing full well any conversation involving Faramir could easily erupt, “He meant no slight by it.”

“Know you then of what led him there? The guards report no news from forests, nor the roads to the south.”

“I know little, I fear,” He instantly regretted the statement as his father’s sharp gaze landed upon him, a dark brow touched by grey arching. 

“Then you know something, I take it?”

“I...I know little, save what Faramir could mention as he prepared to leave, Father. I would not wish to speak untrue in my ignorance.”

“Share what it is you know, my son, and if it proves incorrect, then it proves incorrect.” Denethor’s lips pursed together tightly. 

Boromir glanced at his boots in thought for a long moment and when he once more looked upwards, he was briefly startled to see his own features in his father’s face. Yes, there was the sharp nose, the stern jaw reflected in Denethor’s visage. It occurred to him that he was not immediately pleased to see the resemblance. It pained him, that realization. Should every son not be proud to see the mark of their father? “I know the Rangers have asked him to return because of trouble with the Haradrim.”

“The Haradrim? We’ve received no word of them, no scouts have reported anything to cause concern.”

“And that is where I fear I know little, Father,” Boromir continued, gnawing the corner of his lip with a sigh, “The Dunedain have cause to believe that some are gathering, more than in just their usual tribes and beyond what they have seen before. Some even drew close to Haudh in Gwanur, they say, and sought to ford the Poros.”

“So some of the Haradrim have found cause to grow bold,” Denethor shrugged, moving to one of the wide windows overlooking the city, “We may be cautious, certainly, and there is no small wisdom in caution, but I see no reason for outright alarm.”

“Nor do I,” Boromir had to concede, watching his father closely, “But the Rangers had sought the counsel of their kin in the North. They had sent word to-”

Denethor’s gaze snapped back to him sharply and Boromir spied something like anger in his eyes, “The North? They’ve sent word to the Dunedain there?”

Confused now, Boromir furrowed his brow. “I...from what I know, yes, but as to what and why I know not. Perhaps they-”

“Are we so incapable of protecting our own lands that we would seek the aid of those who know nothing what sieges our borders, what would lay waste unto all we hold dear?” Denethor growled now and Boromir very nearly took a step back, “What do the men of the North knows of Gondor, much less of the Southrons?”

Boromir remained silent, startled by the outburst, but quickly bowed his head in solemn acknowledgement. There was truth to that which he could not deny. “I know, Father. Faramir did not know what cause they had himself, that was in part why he left with such swiftness.”

Denethor grew silent then. His hands absently ran over the hem of his sleeves, eyes fixed upon the city below. Boromir drew nearer, hoping to assuage his father’s anger, even in part if he could, and offered up a faint smile. “Faramir loves this city, he would not so readily leave if he had any other choice. The Dunedain look to him, Father, they see him as a leader. His duties are great and they call him from his home.”

His father’s face grew gentler, thoughtful. “Is it not beautiful, Boromir? Minas Tirith? The City of Kings, they still call it, even the elves.”

“And rightly so,” Boromir nodded, a surge of pride rushing through him as he too looked upon the city. Far below, he could see her folk roaming through the glittering streets about their business, the high parapets stretching into the blue sky above and the crest of the White Tree floating in the breeze as countless banners adorned walls and balustrades alike. It was home, Minas Tirith, both a beacon and reminder of the strength and determination of men. Long were the misfortunes and many were the foes of Gondor, but still Minas Tirith, the wonder of the Race of Men, stood. “Nothing in the East, not even the craft of the first born, can match its wonders.”

“Go to Ithilien,” Denethor finally replied, “Find Faramir and seek what news you can of the Haradrim.”

Boromir blinked. “Would you not rather have me here, Father? My men are here, there are rumors that orcs draw near-”

“Would you deny your Steward, Boromir?”

He instantly grew silent but Denethor’s noble features softened then and he smiled, a hand raising to cup his Boromir’s chin. “I worry for your brother and his men. Report to me what all you might learn so I can see to it they are given what aid they need. Always have they strived to keep unto themselves, the Rangers, but they need not be wholly alone in such as this.”

A part of him longed desperately to believe in that, to assure himself that his father meant naught but good will in this, to truly support his younger brother in all that he did. He ached to believe it, but a stronger part of him worried there was hidden intent. Still, he bowed his head and smiled tightly, “Of course. I’ll leave at first light.”

Boromir turned to leave then, stomach churning, as Denethor added quietly, but with a determined solemness, “And see to it that whatever business they have with the Rangers of the North is ended.”

\------------------

“You have my apologies,” Faramir offered quietly, “But we did what we must in our caution.”

“It’s not often I’m greeted by those I’ve been sent to help by being knocked in the back of the head and blindfolded,” The woman replied icily. Her gaze bored into him then and Faramir found himself made uncomfortable by it, as if she could peel away the layers of his hauberk and see his worry. However, after a long moment, her features softened and she added, “But my own folk would have done the same, where our places reversed. I cannot blame you your caution.”

Even at first glance, it was evident that the woman was of the Dunedain. She was pale with long, black hair that, despite its messied state, flowed over her shoulders. She looked terrible now, face smudged with dirt and dark shadows beneath her eyes from what he assumed was exhaustion, but she nonetheless remained striking. Above all, her gaze told her lineage. They were a stormy grey shot with blue, piercing like the rest of her kin. 

“May I have your name?” He asked, taking a step closer to her. She had been kept away in one of the smaller rooms of Henneth Annun and he spied the blindfold she had so apparently loathed tossed aside on the stone floor. “I take you to be one of the North.”

The woman paused then, brushing her tongue over her lower lip. “Sidri,” She finally replied, as if unused to speaking her name, “And yes, I was sent by my chieftain and my captain. We received your message two months ago.”

Mardil shifted behind him, stepping closer to Faramir’s side. Faramir touched his hand to his chest, bowing his head in recognition, and gestured towards his lieutenant. “My name is Faramir, son of Denethor, and this is Mardil of the Rangers of Ithilien. We welcome you, though I admit we have not altogether expected your arrival.”

Faramir had grown used to eyes widening at the announcement of his father’s name, of his lineage, and found himself pleased when the Dunadeth did not react. “Well met to you both,” She slowly stood, wincing and rubbing the back of her head, “I hail from Esteldin, though I suppose you’ve never heard of that.” She arched a brow now, smoothing out her sullied hauberk. Faramir made mental note to see if new ones could be found for her. “Aye, my chieftain thought it wiser, safer if I were to offer what aid I might in person. We would not risk correspondence being intercepted, nor overlook that which is of importance to my own folk, as well. If what you sent is true, it will impact us all. For that, I was sent.”

Mardil caught Faramir’s gaze and he sighed, running a hand in thought over his chin. “If you mind not my asking, and know I mean no offence, why would your brethren send one of their own? Why-”

“Because I can read it,” Sidri interrupted flatly, “There are few who can, save perhaps Elrond of Rivendell and Mithrandir, if you know of him. I should think most do, he has a habit of showing up where one least expects it when one might least expect it. One of our elders, Gaelenir of Esteldin, can as well, but he is aged and in poor health. My captain did not think him strong enough to make the journey. He taught me when I was but a girl to translate such and I was sent in his stead.”

“You can read it?”

“Yes,” Sidri nodded and swept a mass of dark hair over her shoulder. She leaned down, reaching into a worn saddle bag and retrieving a bit of parchment. She grasped it carefully, Faramir took notice, as if either hot or over cool to the touch. She laid it down upon a map table, slowly unrolling it. He instantly recognized the runes and swirls on it to be the same Mardil had showed him. “Long has it been since last any in the North saw this tongue. Your letter said it was found on one of the Haradrim, but you must also know this is not borne of them. At least, it is not native to them.”

“Aye,” Mardil stated solemnly, his jaw steeling, “None of us can translate it, but we recognized it. For that, we sought the counsel of you and your people. We had hoped one of you might be able to decipher it. I take it you have been able to?”

“I have,” Sidri glanced upwards, fingers almost nervously drumming against the table, “Though I fear I do not understand it. It is a call, a message unto the Haradrim to remember. To remember what? I cannot say, but there is a name here I do not recognize.”

“What is it?” Faramir murmured. 

“Khoraton,” Stated the woman quietly, pursing her lips together in thought.   
“Khoraton?” Mardil pursed his brow together in thought, “It sounds an Easterling word, not of Harad.”

“You know more of such than I,” Admitted Sidri, swiftly folding the letter away and tucking it once more into his bag. It occurred to Faramir that she seemed to be nervous within its very presence. “But roughly, the message you found calls for those of Harad to prepare for Khoraton, to remember it, whatever it may be.” Her face grew solemn, eyes rippling with worry and something perhaps akin to sadness. “My people had thought that tongue all but gone from Middle-earth, Faramir, son of Denethor, vanquished long ago or wasted away by time. We are worried to know it yet remains. If you find more, I can translate it as best I can. You have my word.”

Faramir nodded slowly, mind searching for anything remotely familiar to Khoraton. “And we are grateful for your aid, unexpected as it may be. Once more, I am sorry that you were treated as foe, but Henneth Annun is a hidden place and has been for long. We would wish to keep it that way. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” Sidri replied, “Many are the secrets of the Rangers of the North. We put great value in caution.”

“You should rest,” Mardil interrupted gently, nodding towards a small cot in the corner of the room, “I will have my men find you new clothes. No doubt your journey was long and arduous. Rest while you can.”

Faramir and Mardil left then, leaving the woman to regain her strength. As grateful, and surprised, as he was to have her here, his thankfulness was overtaken by a deep, churning worry. 

Why were the Haradrim in possession of a message written in the Black Speech?


End file.
